


A Study in Idiots

by mandysimo13



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Crack, Drinking, Fluff, Happy Ending, Kissing, M/M, Mutual Pining, One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-10
Updated: 2015-10-10
Packaged: 2018-04-25 15:54:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,882
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4967074
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mandysimo13/pseuds/mandysimo13
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock and John love each other but neither of them have the stones to confess it. That is until our boys go to a pub after a case and John gets into a fight and then spills his feelings in the cab on the ride home.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Study in Idiots

The day that changed John and Sherlock’s life start like many often do, with a case. It was exhilarating and familiar, just like old times for the two of them. After the case was settled Lestrade asked the boys out for a celebratory pint. Sherlock had been reluctant to come out that evening but John would absolutely not take ‘no’ for an answer on the matter. In the end they went together and that night at the led to Sherlock doing something he never thought he would ever have the privilege of doing: kissing his blogger.

But before all that, the boys were left bored in their flat.

The pair of them had been cooped up in 221B for far too long, stuck in each other’s space and heads in the most unpleasant ways. Sherlock had taken to being more stroppy than ever, if that were even possible, despite no apparent cause other than having no cases to pursue. John, home due to a lack of shifts at the surgery, retaliated by being sure to thump around extra hard whilst making tea or doing the washing. They both jumped at accidental brushes and seemed to be lost in thought or caught staring, almost tenderly, at each other at the most inopportune moments. Then they would bicker over toes in the crisper and John breathing too loudly and they were back to being irritable. Their mutual evasive and childish behavior was starting to grate on John’s nerves.

John couldn’t say for sure what had Sherlock in such a mood but he knew his own mind and his reason for being so snippy was this: he had finally come to terms with the fact that he was in love with his mad hatter of a flatmate. What he hadn’t come to terms with was his crippling disappointment that in all likelihood Sherlock would scoff and maintain his disinterest for relationships in general. There was still that faint, glimmering hope every time he caught Sherlock staring that maybe...maybe there was something there and Sherlock might want him too.

John found himself constantly arguing with himself over the whole prospect of finally giving in to his feelings and telling him.

 

_But what if he feels the same?_

_What if he doesn’t?_

_He could, though._

_‘Married to the work’, remember?_

_But aren’t I part of the work, too? I could be the work._

_It’s all just transport to him, git. He doesn’t even eat unless it’s absolutely necessary. What make you think that’ll ever change?_

_….but it could happen._

 

His thoughts chased themselves round and round in an endless loop. For weeks, ever since he had come back to the flat from his failure of a “normal life and wife”, he had had this gnawing epiphany in his head. And he couldn’t put voice to his desires. Because, despite having been in a war and being shot at, chased by dangerous criminals and watching the love of his life die before his eyes, it seemed that John was a coward.

He had never thought twice about telling the women of his past that he loved them, even when he may not have felt it entirely. But then it was always a given that the sentiment would be returned, or at least the words would be. With Sherlock everything was a wild card. So John remained silent and broody and just as desperate for a case from Lestrade as Sherlock always was.

 

~*~

 

Sherlock knew he was being an arse. He knew he was being unreasonable, spitting vitriol at John and Mrs. Hudson for the most miniscule reasons. But he had never handled feelings well, going so far as to tell people that he didn’t have them to avoid talking about them. It had worked surprisingly well for years. And then John came along.

John. John Watson. _His_ John.

When Sherlock came back from the dead he had been absolutely stupid to believe that they could pick up their lives together where they left off; living together, solving crimes, getting take-away at absurd hours, experiencing an alarming amount of palpable, sexual tension whenever spirits and adrenaline was high. That last bit, the tension, is what had Sherlock up in arms. He just couldn’t understand it.

He had felt the pull of sexual attraction before, he wasn’t as inhuman as he made himself seem. In the past he had enjoyed the odd one night stand or short term fling and then ended it when it became boring and stagnant. Off to the next chase, the next game, the next experiment. But John was different. John was always interesting, always surprising. His utter despair at his funeral before he left had shocked Sherlock. Had he known how much his “suicide” would hurt John, Sherlock would have tried harder to endeavor that he never had to leave. He would have done anything to keep that pain from John.

But he did leave and came back and surprised John in return. Quite stupidly, he expected to go back to what was normal for him and John and what happened instead? Numerous punches and a choke-hold that had, quite literally, staggered him. John was a delightful enigma and he never wanted to solve him completely. And that was the revelation that had him currently snapping at everything and everyone who dared come too close.

He knew John loved him. Had known for sure that night he pretended that he didn’t know how to disarm a bomb. He knew when they began their mad dash through the tube that he was manipulating John into confessing something that night. But Sherlock had to know for sure how John felt and if there was one thing he knew for sure it was that being so close to one’s death put things into sharp perspective. He knew, when he jumped off that building that he may never see John again. He also knew that he loved that funny, little army doctor that had managed to limp into his life and chisel away at his stony exterior. He wanted to see what John would say when it was his turn to say goodbye. Granted his own goodbye was not nearly as telling as it could have been, but he knew himself a coward when it came to rejection and he wasn’t confident that John would accept him, even if he was about to jump off a building.

So he tricked John into opening his heart and saying what really mattered. The greatest and the wisest man I ever knew. Sherlock couldn’t believe what he heard at first, he brain had slowed and refused to accept that John forgave him, for everything. After John was done he looked as if he wanted to say more and in that moment Sherlock knew that John felt something more than friendship. But he looked as if saying whatever that was would make him choke on his own tongue so Sherlock took pity on him and turned all into a big joke. _There’s an off switch_. They had laughed and they were both left with words unsaid and a fiancé between them.

Mary had been the biggest surprise of all. A pretty woman who in the end turned out to be a deadly assassin with a surgeon’s aim. The bullet in the torso was also a surprise, he really had not thought she would shoot him. It seemed that John was doomed to forever find himself in the company of dangerous people; though that notion didn’t seem to bother him as much as the betrayal of the two people closest to him.

After everything, Mary leaving and John returning and everything else, all the roads they had traversed together had left Sherlock with an abundance of feelings he could not ignore. It was foreign, rusty, and uncomfortable. So rather than dealing with it like a rational person and talking with the object of his desires he opted to sulk.

This would never have come to pass if Grayson - _Graham, Garrett, George?_ \- had given him a case. He would not be at the mercy of his thoughts if he could fill them with details of murders and crime scenes. If only Lestrade would call with a case! Then he could back to being the machine that everyone thought he was and his mind could leave him be.

 

~*~

 

The call came just in the nick of time. John had found himself in the kitchen holding the skillet. that he had intended to scramble eggs in it but he realized he had raised it in his fist and was walking towards the couch where Sherlock sat. The whole morning he insisted John had made his tea wrong.

“It’s too hot, John.”

“Wait for it to cool,” John said calmly.

“But then the tea will be burnt,” Sherlock replied petulantly.

“No,” John shook his head, “no. I will not make you a tenth cup of tea. That one is just fine, as were the other nine your poured down the sink. I suggest you either choke that down or make your own because I am done!”

That is when John found himself with the skillet, looking for all intents and purposes like an angry 50’s housewife, and about to bludgeon Sherlock with it. Would this even make a blip on your radar, he thought cooly as he took two steps into the living room.

And then Sherlock’s mobile rang.

“That’s Lestrade’s tone!” Sherlock practically leapt off the couch to retrieve his mobile from the table. He answered it in a manic tone, “tell me you have something!”

John blinked a couple times before he registered the blunt object in his hand and then swiftly walked back to the stove and poured his scrambled egg mix into to, rendering it useless for bludgeoning. He listened to Sherlock’s quick muttering to Lestrade. He knew they wouldn’t have long but he hoped he could get Sherlock to at least finish his tea and maybe a piece of toast before they went out to whatever crime scene Lestrade had in store for them.

“Case John!”

“I gathered,” John shouted from the kitchen. “But I’m not going anywhere until I’ve put something in my stomach and neither are you.”

“But John-”

John’s ‘captain’ voice came out. “Sit!”

Sherlock stopped his pacing and stared at him. John felt his eyes on him and raised his to look at his flatmate. Sherlock was buzzing with barely contained excitement and he pouted at John to let him rush off without anything resembling food in his stomach. He cleared his throat and said again, more calmly, “sit. I’ll make you some toast while you finish your tea. My eggs will be ready in a moment and then we can go running into danger as per usual.”

Sherlock nodded wordless and went to retrieve his now perfect temperature tea. In a moment John had toast buttered and on a plate in front of him and Sherlock ate without complaint. John sat across the table with his own plate and cuppa. The flat was silent but for the sounds of their chewing. John let himself believe, just for a moment, that this could be a morning where they had spent the night together. They could have woken lazily and shared sloppy morning kisses before having a wash and sharing breakfast together. But it wasn’t and John didn’t linger long in his fantasy. Sherlock didn’t let him.

The moment he had swallowed down the last of his tea and toast he jumped up and shouted, “ten minutes, John!”

John shook his head and sighed as he put his dirty dishes in the sink for later washing. Who was he kidding? His little fantasy would never happen. He must be content with rushing after his mad flatmate and never getting the intimacy he really wanted. He rushed up to his room to dress and pushed his treacherous thoughts to the back burner, they would only distract from the work. And Sherlock would never abide with distractions from the work.

 

~*~

 

The case took a week to complete. Sherlock of course had deduced the who the killer was in a matter of minutes with the body, _brother-in-law, over money, how boring,_ but he had given them a surprisingly good chase. He was slippery and managed to outrun them at every turn until finally John and Sherlock had trapped him in a garden shed in a residential neighborhood while they waited for the Yarders to come and collect their suspect.

After the killer had been taken into custody it was still relatively early in the afternoon. Noting this, and the fact that their paperwork was pretty cut and dry, Lestrade asked John and Sherlock out to the pub. “What say you to a celebratory pint?”

Sherlock wrinkled his nose, “I don’t-”

“We’d love to,” John answered for them both. Sherlock glared at him but John just smiled and said again. “We’ll be there. Just text us the where and when.”

“Will do. See you boys tonight, then.” He waved and got in his car, leaving the two flatmates alone.

“John,” Sherlock huffed. “You know I detest the pubs.”

“But we need this, Sherlock. Admit it,” John countered, “we’ve been irritating each other nonstop. We could use a night out.”

They walked to the corner to hail a cab. Sherlock stuck his arm out and said, “I agree that we could use a night out, but with the Yarders? Do you actually want to torture me?”

John smiled and patted Sherlock on the shoulder. “They’re not all bad. Greg will be there and maybe Anderson will do something stupid.”

Sherlock’s lips twitched into the barest hint of a smile, “Anderson is always doing something stupid. He can’t help it.”

A cab stopped for them and they filed inside. “Well then I’m sure you’ll find something to enjoy about the evening.” He turned his attention to the cabbie, “221B Baker, please.”

They bickered the whole way there after receiving Greg’s instructions on where to meet. Then they bickered for the whole three hours leading up to the time they had to leave for the pub and John seriously thought about grabbing the skillet again. But then Sherlock came striding out of his room where that purple shirt that always made John’s mouth go dry and he couldn’t remember why he was irritated. Instead he wordlessly handed Sherlock his ridiculous coat, wrapped himself in his own and lead the way out to the street.

 

~*~

 

Sherlock didn’t like pubs. They always smelled of stale beer and of bodies pressed too close together no matter how empty they were. But John had wanted a night out and wanted to be with him and he couldn’t say no. And besides,he couldn’t let John have the opportunity to pick up another brainless bimbo to bring home to the flat.

So there he sat, in a dark pub full of Yarders and stone-cold sober. He had his obligatory pint with Lestrade when they first arrived but after that he refrained from drinking once he had seen how determined John was to get pissed. Unlike his sister, he was a fairly happy drunk but he also was a clumsy one. Someone would have to make sure he got home okay and Sherlock charged himself with the task.

He hadn’t been paying John any mind for the better part of an hour because the argument between Anderson and Donovan was much more amusing. They were “on again” and Anderson had neglected to his leave his wife. Again. Predictable but amusing nonetheless. But then John’s voice came ringing at him from across the bar.

“Don’t be a penis! He’s a genius!” John was slurring and shouting and pointing directly at Sherlock.

Sherlock stiffened at the sudden dozen pairs of eyes turning from John and another Yarder, whose name he didn’t bother to remember, to him. Think that’s our cue to leave, he thought as he gathered their coats from the table they had started the night in and made his way over to John who was still shouting.

“How dare you! He’s brilliant!”

“He’s a freak,” the nameless Yarder shouted back.

“Yeah, but he’s my freak!”

Sherlock, who had just reached the two men, dropped their coats in surprise. “What,” he asked rather dumbly.

“Oh, Sherlock!” John turned a now smiling face on him and pulled him into a hug. “This man is a genius! And my best friend!” He patted Sherlock on the chest to emphasize the statement. The motion made Sherlock smile. “Can’t you see how...how….cool he is?!” He leaned heavily into Sherlock, who could barely contain his laughter. It was so much like John’s stag night when Sherlock had gotten into a fight that Sherlock couldn’t help but grin and laugh a little. “You’re the freak!”

“No,” the Yarder shouted back and pointed at Sherlock, “he is! A barkin’ machine, he is!”

“You little shit,” John growled, launching himself off of Sherlock and into the equally inebriated Yarder. Down they went in a tangle of jostling limbs and shouting. And then the Yarder grumbled.

“Owww!” John had punched him square in the eye. And then Lestrade showed up.

“What’s all this? I go out for a smoke and it’s fuckin’ Bedlam in here!” He pulled the two men apart. “What in bloody hell happened?”

The Yarder pointed at John. “He hit me!”

John pointed back, barely able to stand, “he called Sherlock a freak!”

“Mate,” the Yarder said, “your boyfriend is a fuckin’ freak, accept it!”

“I’m not your Mate!”

John lunged for the man again and this time Sherlock was able to react in time and grabbed him around the middle. “I think it’s time to go home, John.”

“Think that’s best,” Lestrade agreed. “And you,” he rounded on the Yarder. “Sherlock is not your concern, freak or not. Keep your opinions and your mouth to yourself.” He directed the man to a colleague and said, “get him home.”

Sherlock walked a very drunk John out of the pub and leaned him up against the wall. “Think you can stand here long enough for me to get a cab?” John nodded and closed his eyes. Taking that as a yes, Sherlock went to the curb, stuck his arm out and grabbed a cab. He poured John in and told the cabbie where to go.

John seemed half asleep and Sherlock let him be. But his words screamed back at him. _Yeah, but he’s my freak!_ What did he mean by that? His freak? Did John think he was a freak? Did John really love him in return or was it just the alcohol? He had said he was his best friend but that wasn’t news. John’s unusual outburst had Sherlock’s mind reeling. John grumbled from his side of the cab.

“MmmSherlock…”

“Yes, John?”

“M’sorry I called you a freak.”

Sherlock blinked at him. John’s eyes were closed, his head pressed to the cool glass of the window. “You didn’t call me a freak.”

“No,” he said determinedly. “No, I did. I called you ‘my freak’ but I didn’t mean that you were a freak.”

Sherlock licked his lips. “What did you mean John?”

John’s head lolled up from the window and his glassy eyes strained to focus on Sherlock. “That you’re my,” he paused, trying to process his thoughts. Finally he settled on, “my genius.” He patted Sherlock’s hand that laid on the seat between them. “My best friend and my genius.”

Sherlock’s heart hammered in his chest and he couldn’t begin to think of what that could possibly mean. Why must people be so ambiguous?! Why couldn’t John just come right out and say whether he fancied him or not? Or, for that matter, why couldn’t Sherlock have the courage to say that John was his best friend too? His blogger. The man he loved. 

Shock and confusion must have shown on his face and John chuckled at it. “I see it now,” he said.

Sherlock blinked. “See what?”

“We’ve both been complete idiots,” he said fondly. He shuffled over and into Sherlock’s space. Sherlock could smell the beer on his breath but it didn’t repulse him. In fact, all he wanted to do was chase his breath back into his mouth and taste it for himself. He found he was staring at John’s lips but he couldn’t help it.

John registered where Sherlock’s eyes had drifted and smiled. He cupped Sherlock’s face and suddenly the detective’s eyes flew up to John’s. It looked as if John wanted him too, wanted to kiss him, returned his feelings. He licked his lips and seemed to be caught between bravery and fear. Sherlock covered John’s hand with his own and pressed the hand to his cheek for a breath, closing his eyes to savor the touch. “We shouldn’t do this,” he forced himself to say. John was drunk and not in control. “Not tonight at least.”

Disappointment flooded John’s eyes, hurt apparent on his face. John dipped his head and nodded, “of course, I’m sorry.” He tried to slide back to his side of the cab but Sherlock stopped him by pressing a hand to John’s knee.

“Tomorrow. When,” he said hopefully, “when you’re no longer so drunk you can barely stand?” He smiled and tried to laugh and make it lighthearted.

John, still disappointed and now wary, nodded and stayed where Sherlock held him by his knee. He removed his hand from Sherlock’s cheek and put it in his lap. The rest of the ride was quiet and awkward, tense and discontent. When the cab arrived at the flat Sherlock paid, for once, and helped John up the stairs. They made it to the living room and John grumbled in Sherlock’s arms. “Too tired, must lay down.”

“Can you make it to your room?”

John shook his head. “Couch is closer.” Under his own will he crossed the room to the couch and flopped down onto it face first.

“Your shoulder won’t like it in the morning,” Sherlock warned. A snore answered him. He shrugged and went to gather a blanket to drape over his flatmate and then went to fetch a glass of water and a couple paracetamol tablets. He put them on the coffee table near John’s head and stood over him to watch him for a moment.

Sherlock knew John would be in pain the next morning but he was reluctant to wake him. He looked so peaceful while he slept, no trace of the disappointment from the cab ride. It took everything he had not to stroke the blond hair on John’s head and bend to kiss his cheek. Sherlock took himself to the relative safety of his room and shut the door.

 

~*~

 

John woke with a groan.

He hurt everywhere, especially his head and shoulder. And then he remembered the cab ride and he groaned in embarrassment. He should never have let himself try to kiss Sherlock, never gotten into that fight in the first place. What must Sherlock think of him now? He shook his head to remove that train of thought an instantly regretted the movement. Then he slowly turned his head and pushed up from the couch and saw the water and pills.

Sherlock had warned him he’d be in pain and saw to it that there was aid waiting for him when he woke. His heart flooded with warmth as he sat up to down the pills and water properly. He sat for a few quiet moments, sipping the water slowly, and debated downing some toast so that the pills didn’t upset his stomach. In the end, practicality overruled the desire to crawl upstairs and into his bed. He gingerly rose up and tried to stretch his stiff shoulder, wincing at the tightness.

He took his empty glass to the sink and filled it again, forcing himself to sip slowly. After his second glass of water he took down the loaf of bread and put two slices in the toaster and refilled his glass. While he waited for his toast he drank his third glass and rummaged through the fridge for some jam. Satisfied with his strawberry jam he spread it on his toast when it popped and took small bites, closing his eyes when the jam touched his tongue.

He was so engrossed in the warm sweetness that he missed Sherlock emerging from his room and joining him in the kitchen.

“Have you put the kettle on?”

John’s eyes flew open and he choked on his toast. After clearing his airway he looked up at Sherlock in his rumpled pajamas and dressing gown looking concerned at John’s reaction. “Sorry, didn’t hear you come in. You startled me.” He dropped the remaining half piece of toast and turned to fill the electric kettle. “Tea, then?”

Sherlock nodded and sat at the table. He picked up the half eaten toast and took a bite. “How’s your shoulder this morning?”

“Screaming,” John replied.

Sherlock nodded and reached for the whole piece of toast remaining on John’s plate. John smacked his hand and snatched it, “oy! My toast!”

Sherlock pouted and whined, “Joooohn,” and the doctor rolled his eyes, sticking the bread between his teeth. He readied two more pieces of bread for the toaster and set it to cooking. The kitchen was quiet but for the sounds of water warming and John chewing his toast. He refused to look at Sherlock, still terribly embarrassed at his actions the previous night.

Sherlock coughed to clear his throat and said, “John-”

“Before you start,” John cut him off. “I want to apologize.”

Sherlock blinked. “For what?” He looked panicked, confused.

“For my behavior last night.” He sighed and shook his head. “I should never had tried to kiss you in the cab last night.” He forced himself to meet Sherlock’s eyes, searching for forgiveness. Instead he saw fear.

“W-why not?” Sherlock’s response had John reeling. He looked as if John had hurt him. _But why?_

“Because...you’re not interested?” It was absolutely a question. “In me, that is.” He wasn’t so sure after seeing Sherlock’s face. He swallowed hard. “Right?”

The toast popped and startled them both. John clutched his heart for a moment and Sherlock jumped from his chair and then they both giggled at the absurdity of the moment. John tried to keep it lighthearted and said, “anyway. I’m sorry.”

He turned and plucked the toast out of the toaster and put the pieces on the plate so he could spread jam on them. Then the he felt Sherlock’s presence behind him and John stilled. He turned around with plate in hand and offered it to the detective. Sherlock took the plate from him and put it on the counter behind John. “Why would you think I wasn’t interested last night?”

John licked his lips and saw Sherlock’s eyes dart down to his mouth. That movement sent a shiver down his spine. “Because,” he said cautiously, “because you said ‘we shouldn’t do this’?”

Understanding dawned on Sherlock and he rolled his eyes. “Because you were drunk, John.” He hesitantly put a hand on John’s good shoulder. “I didn’t want you to regret anything. And I didn’t want to take advantage.” _And I didn’t want to be wrong about your feelings,_ Sherlock added silently, unwilling to admit he wasn’t sure of John’s feelings until just then.

John’s mouth dropped open, disbelieving. “What?”

“You’re such an idiot.” He leaned down and kissed John softly, chastely. John stiffened for a fraction of a second then drew Sherlock closer by gripping the lapels of his dressing gown and pulling, deepening the kiss.

When they surfaced for air John chuckled, “if I’m an idiot then you’re twice the idiot.”

Sherlock grimaced, “I beg your pardon?”

John laughed at Sherlock’s face and said fondly, “how could you not deduce it, you great git?”

“Well,” Sherlock stammered, still unwilling to admit his second guessing the signs, “you never observe,” he countered.

John stroked the detective’s face and smiled. “I’m observing now, aren’t I?”

Sherlock nodded and kissed him again, gently, slowly. “Yes, John.” He pressed John into the counter, wanting to be closer. John flailed and reached behind him to steady himself. Instead of finding the counter his hand found the plate of jammed toast.

“Bullocks,” John muttered into Sherlock’s mouth. Sherlock didn’t heed John’s predicament and kept on kissing him. “Let me up,” John pushed against Sherlock’s chest, reluctant to stop kissing but disliking the feeling of jam between his fingers more. Sherlock whined at the loss of John’s lips but acquiesced. John quickly washed his hand in the sink.

He turned, wanting to return his attention to Sherlock, and frowned immediately. “Ahem,” he grumbled. Sherlock had the plate of toast in his hands and was chewing away happily.

He grinned at John, “problem, John?”

John shook his head, realize again how much he loved this ridiculous man and kissed him, tasting strawberry on his lips. “Nope. Just in love with an absolute nutter.”

Sherlock kissed him back, "I love you too, John."

In the end, Sherlock never got a chance to finish his toast and John would have to reheat the kettle much, much later.

**Author's Note:**

> This prompt came from my roommate who told me about the line "...don't be a penis, he's a genius!" from the musical "Something Rotten". I originally wanted it to come out more cracky and fun than pining but, there you go. Hope you enjoyed! Comment and kudos are always welcome!


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